Happy Hour (11 page)

“Good.” He stopped in front of one of the stalls and opened the door.
Inside was a beautiful palomino, all golden with a light blonde mane and tail.

Jamie stood there awed. She had always found horses to be gorgeous. And
she had wanted one as a kid at some point. But they’d lived in the suburbs and
her mom had no interest in horses, only a fear of them. Thus, Jamie lost
interest.

She watched as Tyler gently stroked the mare and spoke softly to her.
“How you feeling, mare? Better? You gave me a scare. Let me listen to that big
old gut of yours.” He put his ear to the side of her stomach and listened, then
walked to the other side of her and repeated his actions. “Good. Nice gut
sounds and looks like you passed your oil. Good kid.” He scratched behind one
of her ears.

Something about watching him with that horse shot that lustful feeling
straight through Jamie again—all the way down to her toes. She didn’t need to
be riding his horse. She needed to get out of there and fast. This was supposed
to be about Maddie, not gawking after some hot guy who wanted to give her a
riding lesson. But she couldn’t chicken out now so twenty minutes later she
found herself up on a bay Quarter horse, walking around one of the arenas on
the ranch with Tyler giving her instructions like, “Get your heels down. Sit up
straight. Tighten up your right rein and good job keeping him on the rail.” She
rode for about forty-five minutes and the longer she rode the horse, the more
she realized how much fun she was having. When they were finished and she rode
the horse back to the crosstie area to tie him up, she followed Tyler’s
instructions.

“Take your right foot out of the stirrup. Good. Now lean your body over
the horse and kick out the left foot. Now push off and slide down.”

Instead of sliding down, Jamie tripped and fell right on her butt. Tyler
laughed and she started laughing, too. He held out a hand to her and pulled her
back up. “You okay?”

She nodded. “My nickname is obviously not Grace.”

“Ah well. You did good. You’ll get off him better next time. Your
daughter is over helping Gwen rinse off the horse. I see them over there.” He
pointed to a set of wash racks on the other side of one of the arenas where she
could see Maddie spraying off a horse and laughing.

“There will be a next time, right?”

“Oh, no. I don’t know about that. Like I said, I can’t really afford it.”

He nodded. “Did you like it? If you could afford it, would you do it?”

She stood there for a few seconds thinking about it. “Yes. You know, I
think I would. I wanted to ride as a kid and I think it would be fun and good
for me too.”

“I have an offer. Saturdays I run a horsemanship for the handicapped
program. I’m always needing volunteers and all you have to do is help the kids
brush and saddle the horses, and then a team of two to three people lead the
horse and kid around.”

“I don’t know if I could do that.”

“I can teach you. It won’t take long. I could also knock off a few more
dollars with Maddie’s lessons.”

“You do this for everyone?” She smiled.

“Only the pretty ones.” He winked at her.

“Ah.” She didn’t know how to respond. Was he coming on to her?

“You seem like a nice woman and it’s obvious you’ve had some rough times.
Let me help.”

“Pity service.”

He sighed. “If you’re helping me help some handicapped folks, I don’t
think that I am pitying you. I believe in helping others. Or are you too proud
to accept that?”

She crossed her arms and studied him. He was right. She had no room to be
too proud and helping others
was
a good thing. And if it meant that
Maddie could do something she loved a little more often, then who was she to
say no? “When do you want me here to start my training?”

Alyssa closed the gallery to prepare for her art classes, taking up the
largest area in the three sectioned-off gallery spaces.  She covered the
paintings in that area with tarp, as well as the flooring—just in case.

She set up chairs, easels and all of the supplies. Alyssa loved the way
the rich earthy scent of her oil paints with their acidic overtones assaulted
her senses, signaling that call to arms—pick up that paintbrush!

Five people, including Danielle, showed up for the Wednesday evening art
class. It was a mixed group, with an age range from nineteen to seventy. They
were a good group, all interested, and some even showing talent as Alyssa had
them do the first sketch—wine or vineyard-related—which would later become
their first oil.

After a demonstration period and then some questions and answers, the
artists went to work and creativity flowed. This was Alyssa in her element. To
add to the ambience, she put on some old jazz classics. Snapping her fingers in
time to Ella Fitzgerald, she moved around the room, offering advice and
guidance.

She stood over Danielle. “I like it. You’re pretty good at this.”

Danielle looked up at her and smiled. “You think so?” Alyssa nodded.
“Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“Sure. I’m good,” Danielle replied. “Better. I’m doing better.”

Alyssa wasn’t convinced. Maybe she’d talk to her at dinner. There was a
lot on her plate right now, but Alyssa wouldn’t push her. If anyone respected
privacy, she did, as she valued hers so much and would never really want to
discuss the things that hurt her most. The past was gone and it could not be
changed, so why bother sharing it with anyone? It was far easier to shove it
aside, try and forget about it, and move on.

Two hours later, the artists put away their supplies, thanked Alyssa, and
headed back to their everyday lives. Danielle helped her put chairs and easels
away, and take down the tarps.

“That was great.” Danielle held up her sketch of a wine bottle and a slab
of cheese surrounded by grapes. “I needed that. Some time away.”

“Good,” Alyssa replied. “I’m happy you could make it over. You have some
real talent.”

“Speaking of talent, you said that you had a new painting you were
working on.”

“I’m not quite ready to show anyone. It’s missing something. I can’t tell
what. I feel it though. It’ll come to me. I promise you’ll be the first to see
it when I’m ready.”

“You artists,” Danielle quipped.

“I know. We can be a bit strange about our work. They’re like children, I
suppose. You want to protect them, right?”

“Isn’t that the truth.” Danielle walked through the gallery, stopping in
front of Alyssa’s oils of the little boy in the vineyard. “This child, he looks
so real. You had to have had a photo or a model to do this.”

“No. The pictures are in my head.”

“And you’ve never seen this baby or boy before?”

“No.”

“You are truly a talent, my friend.” Danielle tucked her dark red hair
behind her ears. “Shall we go eat?”

“Sounds good.”

Danielle headed for the door, her back to Alyssa who reached out and
touched the cheek on the boy in the painting, almost as if saying good
night—good night to a ghost.

***

Kat spotted her friends come in and she seated them at the best table in
the house. Christian’s had a different flair than Sphinx did. It had class like
their place in the city, but far cleaner lines. Black and white and Tiffany
blue were the primary colors. A fireplace sparked in the middle of the
restaurant that gave off a warm glow during winter evenings. For the summer
months, Kat placed candles inside the hearth. On the walls were black and white
photos of Christian in various cooking motifs, some with him and Kat and some
with his daughter Amber. There was one with her boys in it that also included
Amber, Christian, and herself.

“Hi, ladies. What can I get you to drink?” Kat asked after her friends
sat down in one of the booths.

“What would you recommend?” Alyssa asked.

“For you, I have a great chardonnay from a local winery, actually owned
by a Latino family. Kind of a neat story. Dad started out working in the fields
years ago and made his way up the ranks. Now he owns his own winery.”

“El Sueño, right?” Danielle asked. “Great family and, yes, the wines are
fantastic. Why don’t we have a bottle of that?”

“Perfect. And I’ll also bring you out a plate of a delectable herbed goat
cheese and mushroom tart. It’s delicious.”

“And low-cal, too,” Alyssa said.

“Of course!” Kat hurried off to the back for the wine and to put the
order in for the tart. She’d planned to serve the girls herself if she couldn’t
join them. It was after eight on a Wednesday and things were slowing down. The
scent of garlic and rosemary filled the bustling kitchen as four cooks worked
alongside Christian.

“Mushroom tart,” she said to her husband, who was overseeing his sous
chef, Renaldo. He patted him on the back. “I’ll get it.”

Kat pulled out a chilled bottle of the chardonnay from the wine cooler
and started to head back out into the restaurant.

Christian put a hand on her shoulder and stopped her. “Can I talk to
you?” he asked.

She grimaced. That was a tone she hated. “Now?” She held up the bottle of
wine.

He nodded. “It’ll only take a minute and its been weighing on me all
day.”

She sighed heavily. “What is it?”

“It’s Jeremy,” he said.

She knew it. Hours, and occasionally days, would go by without Christian
coming to her with some complaint about one or both of her boys, and like
tonight, he always picked the most inopportune moments to accost her. It was
almost like he waited to attack when her defenses had no choice but to be down.
For goodness sakes, she was trying to pour wine for patrons and now her friends
were waiting on her. It had been three days and she’d held her breath, hoping
that they could make it through a week without some squabble about her sons to
bubble over. “What now?”

“He had on my socks again.”

She eyed the wine, intentionally avoiding her husband’s gaze. “He had on
your socks again?”

“Yep. I know they were mine too because I put my initials on them, and
when I saw him with them on, I asked him to take them off.”

“Did he?”

“Yep. But he sort of tossed them into the middle of the floor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Kat! What are you going to do about this?”

“I guess he needs new socks. I’ll get him some.”

“No. He needs to respect me and not take my things. And Brian? I had to
ask him four times to take out the trash yesterday. Four times.”

“He’s fourteen.”

“But four times?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Consequences, Kat. Those boys need consequences or they won’t get
anywhere in life. They won’t. You have to give them boundaries and
expectations.” He crossed his arms.

“I will talk to them, but right now I think we both have jobs to do.”

He nodded, seemingly somewhat satisfied.

Kat had learned that blended families were nearly impossible. Marriage to
Christian had not been what she thought it would be when she accepted his
proposal. That night out on a sailboat that he’d borrowed from a buddy, with
the gourmet food, good wine, and beautiful flowers, it hadn’t occurred to her
that things might be anything but smooth sailing for the two of them. She
hadn’t thought that the kids might be a problem.

There was no love lost between the three boys in her life. They weren’t
ever mean to each other—there was no yelling or anything like that. But from
Christian, it was these daily jabs that made her feel like she sucked as a
mother, and from the boys it was constant questions as to why Christian was
such a jerk to them. Many nights she’d lied awake wondering why she put up with
it.

 She put on a smile and walked back out to Alyssa and Danielle’s table.
Opening the wine, Danielle, who read people like a book said, “You okay, hon?”

“Perfect. I am absolutely perfect.” She poured their wine, maintaining
grace and her smile, knowing that if she told everyone else that lie long
enough, then she might start to believe it too.

Danielle sat next to Shannon in the doctor’s waiting room. How surreal
and strange to be seated next to your twenty-one-year-old pregnant, unmarried
daughter. And yet, why was that so? Twenty-one-year-old women got pregnant all
the time and many of them were unmarried. The thing was that none of those
other women were Danielle’s daughter.

Shannon didn’t want her to come. Danielle practically had to beg to join
her.  They sat quietly flipping through women’s magazines and trying hard not
to act tense inside the waiting room filled with women in various states of
pregnancy. All Danielle wanted to do was hold Shannon’s hand, make her little
again. Start all over. Wouldn’t it be great to have a start over button, one
you could pull out of your purse and as things got screwy in life, press the
button and voila—take a trip through time and make some changes? But what would
she change and how would she change it? So many things. But would the outcome
be different? Who knew? It was all philosophy and silly banter playing in her
mind while seated next to her
unmarried twenty-one-year–old pregnant daughter
.

Danielle knew they needed to talk—really talk—about what was happening.
Their talks had been fairly benign thus far. Any time Danielle tried to bring
up the idea of adoption or contacting the father in Italy, or what Shannon’s
plan for the future might entail, it turned out the same way—Shannon either in
tears or simply stating that she didn’t want to talk about it. For the past few
days, Danielle stuck to topics like the wine she was making, and what was
happening on
Grey’s Anatomy
, and even the weather. Talk about surreal!
They’d talked about the weather as if they were strangers, not mother and
daughter. How had all this happened? They used to be so close. They talked
about everything under the sun. Danielle didn’t outwardly admit that she had a
favorite child. She didn’t. Not really. But the bond between her and her oldest
child was special. Unbreakable, so she’d thought. Cassie had always been loud,
a bit pushy
and
obstinate
and
one to rebel. Not Shannon. She’d
been a mommy’s girl from day one, so much in common, so open with one another.
And now—they talked about the damn weather.